Blackstone and the Great War

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Goodnight Maude, goodnight Soames, goodnight Hatfield,’ Carstairs drawled.

  The three young officers crossed the dugout and walked past Blackstone. None of them looked directly at him – nor even so much as acknowledged his physical presence – but that couldn’t cover up the fact that they had been bursting with curiosity when he first walked in.

  ‘Maude, Soames and Hatfield,’ Blackstone repeated silently.

  He would remember those names and those faces, just in case their presence in the dugout that night had been more than just a coincidence.

  ‘Do you have any questions you’d care to put to Blackstone, Captain Huxton?’ Carstairs asked the other remaining officer.

  ‘I most certainly do,’ Huxton replied. ‘You’re a sergeant, aren’t you, Blackstone?’

  He had just about got the measure of the two men now, Blackstone decided.

  Carstairs, despite his greying temples, was probably still only in his early thirties. He was the sort of man who would not find the burden of command an easy one to bear, but would do his best to fulfil the role honourably and conscientiously. As officers went, he was probably not a bad man, though, like most officers, his view of the world around him was probably as narrow as the one which could be viewed through a trench periscope.

  Huxton was another matter altogether. He had a rounded face and a florid complexion, and his eyes told the story of a man who had gone through life with the firm belief that no problem was so large that it could not be solved by merely shouting loudly at it.

  ‘Are you stone deaf, man?’ Huxton demanded. ‘I asked you if you were a sergeant.’

  ‘I used to be,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I used to be a lot of things – but now I’m a police inspector.’

  Captain Huxton lifted his whisky glass, and took a leisurely sip, leaving Blackstone standing there in front of the table, as if he were a guilty schoolboy who had been summoned to the headmaster’s study.

  Huxton smacked his lips in appreciation, put his glass down, and said, ‘I hear you served in India and Afghanistan.’

  ‘I did,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘Well, that must have been a long time ago now,’ Huxton reflected. ‘Soldiering has changed a lot since your day.’

  No, it hadn’t, Blackstone thought – not if these men were anything to go by. The weapons may have become more lethal, the tactics might now be very different, but the army was still the army he had known – and Carstairs and Huxton were the living proof of it.

  ‘We’ve had to lower our standards since this bloody war started, and the average age of my chaps now is considerably higher than it used to be,’ Huxton continued, ‘but even so, you’re much older than I’d normally consider acceptable.’ He paused. ‘And then there’s the fact that all my men are corporals, while you’re a sergeant.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Yes, but not an insurmountable one,’ Huxton said complacently. ‘I’m sure that as soon you’ve learned how we go about our business in today’s army, you’ll fit in well enough. But one thing will have to change – and change damn quickly,’ he warned, his voice hardening and his finger wagging, ‘and that’s your attitude. You’re far too casual. I expect the proper deference from all my men – and I don’t care how old you are, I expect it from you.’

  ‘You seem to be labouring under a misapprehension,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I haven’t been enlisted, and I won’t be working for you.’

  Huxton snorted in disbelief. ‘Of course you’ll be working for me. I’m the Assistant Provost Marshal. Who else would you be working for?’

  ‘I won’t be working for anyone,’ Blackstone said. ‘My investigation will be entirely independent of the army, though I may, when the need arises, ask for the assistance of a few of your men.’

  ‘You might ask whatever you choose,’ Huxton said, his florid face now almost lobster-red. ‘But if you seriously expect me to allow any of my men to take orders from you, then . . . then you’re completely off your head.’ He turned to Carstairs for support. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, George? He must be completely off his head.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that,’ Carstairs said.

  ‘What!’ Huxton exploded.

  ‘Believe me, I can quite see your point, and if I were in your position, I’m sure I would feel exactly as you do,’ Carstairs said. ‘But the War Office communiqué leaves us very little room for manoeuvre. In fact, it states quite explicitly that we are to extend to Inspector Blackstone any assistance that he sees fit to request.’

  Carstairs was enjoying this, Blackstone suddenly realized – and there was probably good reason for that.

  Even in his soldiering days in India, the regular army had never regarded the military police as proper soldiers, and had resented the way their powers cut across the command structure. And the police, for their part, had felt aggrieved that regular soldiers failed to acknowledge the vital role they felt they played in holding a rabble army together.

  But there was more to it than that, Blackstone told himself. Carstairs disliked Huxton on a purely personal level – and in that way, at least, he and the company commander had something in common.

  ‘But . . . but the man’s nothing but a retired sergeant!’ Huxton protested.

  ‘Oh no, he’s much more than that,’ Carstairs said, and once again, he was making little effort to disguise his pleasure at Huxton’s discomfort. ‘He’s an inspector from Scotland Yard – as he’s been at pains to point out himself – and the personal representative of General Fortesque, and while I can’t insist that you cooperate with him—’

  ‘Damn right, you can’t insist!’

  ‘—there are those who outrank both of us who will insist, and I would strongly advise you to cooperate willingly, rather than under compulsion.’

  He could have phrased it more tactfully – and in private – Blackstone thought. But tact was not part of Carstairs’ battle plan – though what that plan actually was had yet to emerge.

  ‘I . . . I . . . don’t suppose there’s any harm in answering a few of the man’s questions,’ Huxton blustered. ‘Do you have any questions, Blackstone?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Blackstone replied.

  ‘Well, let’s hear them, then.’

  ‘I assume you’ve taken statements from all the men who were in the trench that night, Captain Huxton.’

  ‘I might have done – if half of them hadn’t been bloody well dead,’ Huxton snarled.

  ‘In purely military terms, Lieutenant Fortesque’s death came at a rather inconvenient time,’ Captain Carstairs explained.

  The aim of the planned offensive is to capture the small village – scarcely more than a hamlet, but of strategic importance – which lies beyond the German lines. The young staff officers, and – of course – the enlisted men, have not been informed of this, though, if they have any sense at all, they will know it is coming.

  For days, new artillery batteries have been arriving, and night trains have rumbled into St Denis station, packed with shells.

  New trenches – saps – are being dug, at right angles to the front line, and heading towards the German trenches. Not only that, but some of the sap heads are being joined up to make what, in effect, is a new front line.

  Fresh consignments of ladders – which will make climbing out of the trenches a much quicker process – are delivered.

  The artillery has begun a heavier-than-usual bombardment of the German trenches, and – more importantly – of the coils and coils of wicked barbed wire which separate the two armies.

  And the Royal Engineers are digging new pits in front of the trenches, which everybody knows – though nobody says – can have no purpose other than to accommodate gas cylinders.

  So the soldiers understand perfectly what is about to happen – and so do the French villagers and the Germans.

  ‘Lieutenant Fortesqu
e was murdered less than twenty-four hours before the offensive was due to begin,’ Captain Carstairs said. ‘I realized immediately that the Assistant Provost Marshal needed to be called in to investigate the matter, but you were away on official business, weren’t you, Geoffrey?’

  ‘Yes,’ Captain Huxton said, begrudgingly.

  ‘I sent him a telegram immediately,’ Carstairs continued, ‘but it took some time to reach him, and even when it had, getting back here, in the middle of the preparations for an offensive, wasn’t easy.’

  In other words, the killer had chosen just the right time to strike, Blackstone thought.

  ‘Captain Huxton arrived here late in the evening, a few hours before the men were due to go over the top,’ Carstairs continued. ‘He did not ask if he could question the men at that time, and I could not have permitted it even if he had.’

  Huxton shot him a look of pure hatred. ‘Now look here, old chap, I’m the Assistant Provost Marshal, and if I’d wanted to question them, I damn well would have done, whether or not—’

  ‘You’re perfectly correct, Geoffrey, and I apologize,’ Carstairs said – though he did not sound the least apologetic. ‘If you’d wanted to interrogate the men, you would have been quite within your rights. But you realized, even without my having to point it out to you, that questioning them just before an offensive would have been bad for morale.’

  ‘Well, as long as that’s clear,’ Huxton muttered.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why the platoon wasn’t questioned earlier in the day,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘For God’s sake man, can’t you follow even a simple argument?’ Huxton demanded. ‘You’ve already been told I wasn’t here.’

  ‘Couldn’t some of your corporals have done it?’

  ‘I was not here,’ Huxton said, speaking the words very slowly, perhaps in the hope that Blackstone would finally understand, ‘and because I was not here, they did not have the authority.’

  Ah yes, he’d forgotten momentarily that this was the army, Blackstone thought – they did not have the authority, and so they had done nothing.

  ‘The offensive did not go well,’ Carstairs said. ‘The gas-company commander told divisional headquarters that the gas couldn’t be discharged, because there was no wind, and divisional headquarters said he should discharge it anyway. So they did discharge it, and it just bloody hovered there, right in front of our bloody trench. Some of it even blew back in, so we were gassing ourselves.’

  Huxton smirked. ‘If I were in your shoes, I think I’d choose my words a little more carefully, old boy,’ he said. ‘After all, you don’t want an inspector of police – who is also General Fortesque’s personal representative – thinking that your chaps simply don’t know their job.’

  But Carstairs, caught up in a wave of genuine anger, was not about to exercise caution.

  ‘At any rate, we did send the men over eventually, once some of the gas had cleared,’ he continued, ‘and it was a disaster. The shelling hadn’t cut the barbed wire properly, Fritz had had plenty of time to prepare for us – if he hadn’t picked up on any other clues, the gas was all the confirmation he needed – and once the men were in No Man’s Land, it was like a bloody pheasant shoot.’

  ‘Has your plodding policeman’s brain managed to grasp the point, Blackstone?’ Captain Huxton asked.

  ‘What point?’

  ‘That with over half Fortesque’s platoon killed that morning, there’s a very good chance that his murderer – and anyone else who might have assisted us in our investigation – is already dead.’

  ‘So you’re assuming that Fortesque was killed by one of his own platoon, are you?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Well, of course I am. Who else would have done it? You’re surely not suggesting it was a private from one of the other platoons, are you?’

  ‘It could have been,’ Blackstone said. ‘Or it could have been one of the officers.’

  ‘It most certainly could not have been one of the officers!’ Huxton exploded. He turned to Carstairs for support. ‘Will you remind this bounder of his place – or should I?’

  ‘At this stage of the investigation, I don’t think we can afford to rule any possibility out,’ Carstairs said calmly.

  ‘What!’ Huxton asked, outraged. ‘Are you saying that you’re willing to subscribe to the disgraceful notion that an officer could have . . . could have . . .’

  ‘I think it’s highly unlikely – but not entirely inconceivable,’ Carstairs said.

  Huxton stood up. ‘I find it impossible to play any part in an investigation which could entertain the idea that a gentleman could be party to such an act – and I wash my hands of the whole affair,’ he bellowed. ‘And as for you, Carstairs,’ he continued, as he strode furiously to the door, ‘all I can say is that I consider you a traitor to your class.’

  Once Huxton had slammed the door behind him, Carstairs sighed and said, ‘You may sit if you wish, Blackstone.’

  ‘That would have been a most welcome invitation fifteen minutes ago, but now I think I prefer to stand,’ Blackstone told him.

  Carstairs nodded. ‘I don’t suppose there’d be any point in offering you a whisky, either.’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘I may have pointed out to Captain Huxton the necessity of cooperating with you,’ Carstairs said, ‘but I certainly wouldn’t want to have given you the impression that I approve of you being here and—’

  ‘You haven’t,’ Blackstone told him.

  ‘Kindly do not interrupt,’ Carstairs snapped. ‘I want it clearly understood that I am only giving you my support in this venture of yours because that is what I’ve been ordered to do.’

  ‘That is understood,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘And you might make both your task and mine a little easier if, as an ex-sergeant, you showed some respect when addressing an officer,’ Carstairs continued. ‘For example, I’d appreciate it if you called me “sir”.’

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ Blackstone agreed.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘And if the men heard me calling you “sir”, what would they think?’

  ‘They’d think it was only right and proper.’

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘No, they wouldn’t. What they would think is that everything they told me would come straight back to you.’

  ‘And so it should. Not that I’m expecting you to report it to me directly, of course.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No – the NCO who accompanies you will file the report.’

  ‘There won’t be any NCO accompanying me,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re quite wrong about that,’ Carstairs said firmly.

  ‘None of you seem to have quite got the hang of what’s going on yet, have you?’ Blackstone asked. ‘I’m conducting a criminal investigation here. I’ll go where I want to go, and talk to who I want to talk to—’

  ‘That’s out of the question.’

  ‘—and if there are any restrictions placed on me, I’ll be on the next train out of here, and you can explain to the General Staff why I’ve gone.’

  ‘I don’t like being threatened,’ Carstairs growled.

  ‘And I’m not threatening you,’ Blackstone replied. ‘But if I’m to find the guilty man, be he a private soldier or an officer—’

  ‘The idea that an officer killed Lieutenant Fortesque is quite out of the question,’ Carstairs said.

  Blackstone grinned. ‘That’s not what you said to Captain Huxton,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I have since revised my position,’ Carstairs told him.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘No, you haven’t. You were never prepared to consider it.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Carstairs demanded.

  ‘No,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’m calling you a tactician.’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘You didn’t want Huxton involved in this investigation, not because you think he’s
a fool – which he undoubtedly is – but because you’d already decided I need to be tightly controlled, and he’s clearly not up to the job. That’s why you were baiting him from the moment I arrived. That’s why you pretended to agree with me about the possibility of the killer being an officer – because you wanted him to storm out, just as he eventually did.’

  ‘Whatever I may have said, and for whatever reason I may have said it, my position now is quite clear,’ Carstairs told Blackstone, in the growling voice of a wounded beast. ‘I consider it unthinkable that one of my officers would contemplate, even for a moment, anything as dastardly as committing a murder.’

  ‘That’s not quite what you mean,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. What you’re actually saying is that it’s unthinkable that any of the officers serving under you would contemplate killing one of their own kind.’

  ‘That’s the same thing, isn’t it?’ Carstairs asked, sounding genuinely mystified.

  ‘Not by a mile,’ Blackstone told him.

  Then he reached down for the whisky bottle and poured himself a shot.

  ‘What the devil . . .’ Carstairs exclaimed.

  ‘You did offer me a whisky earlier,’ Blackstone said, looking him squarely in the eye.

  ‘Don’t push me too far,’ Carstairs said.

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ Blackstone promised. He took a sip of his drink. It was malt – far beyond the pocket of a humble police inspector. ‘In my time, I’ve arrested a wide range of people, from the lowest guttersnipe in an East End flophouse to members of the aristocracy in their own stately piles. And the main lesson I’ve learned from making those arrests is that, given the right circumstances, anybody is capable of killing anybody.’

  ‘That’s preposterous!’ Carstairs said.

  ‘Is it?’ Blackstone asked. ‘When I reached for your whisky just now, wasn’t there a brief moment when you wanted to kill me?’

  Carstairs looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite as strongly as that,’ he said.

  ‘The feeling might have only lasted a split second, but for that split second, you did want me dead,’ Blackstone told him. ‘There’s no point in denying it, because I could read it in your eyes.’